summer in the country

I am writing this sitting in a steamer chair on the veranda.  It is a reflection of the summer we've had so far, that the fact that I am sitting outside in the garden shortly before seven in the evening is worthy of note.  I am wearing linen trousers and a cotton t-shirt (OK, long sleeved.  There's no need to get carried away) and no socks.  And no thermals or fleece.  Last week at work I was so cold that by elevenses I had to go into the loo and put on the thermal leggings I'd chucked in my bag at the last minute, just in case.

The birds are singing very loudly, but are partly drowned out by the pair of microlight aircraft that are pootling overhead, like noisy airborne lawnmowers.  I am looking down into a white and pink and purple sea of old and shrub roses, with the occasional foxglove spire poking up among them.  The evening air is humid, and the scent of the roses lies thick and sweet.

Our Ginger has given up trying to climb into my lap and sit on my keyboard, and has collapsed beside me, snoring gently.  The big tabby is washing, and the cats have stopped fighting each other, after a spectacular stramash over the weekend that resulted in great tufts of fur being pulled out all over the sitting room.  The big tabby was in a sulk yesterday, but by this morning he'd forgotten.

There is still heat in the sun, and the low angle of light catches the heads of the golden oat, Stipa gigantea, which are shimmering gently.  Everything has grown wildly with the rain, the roses, which have never been so tall and are spilling out of their supports, the lumps of box included in the rose bed to give some evergreen bulk in the winter, and the little hedges of golden leaved shrubby honeysuckle, which have gone intensely whiskery despite having had a good haircut in the spring.  The wind has some easterly in it, and the veranda is sheltered by the house.  It is not a strong wind, but enough to turn the blades of the turbine on the farm behind the house.

Tomorrow I have to go and do a garden talk (or at least I think I do.  The organiser hasn't contacted me or replied to my phone message yet) and on Thursday night I'm doing a beekeeping talk.  By then it is forecast to be raining again.  But tonight I can sit on the veranda.  It is one of those evenings that reminds you why you bother to live in the country.